Three Cups Of Tea Part 7

During the week Mortenson had spent sleeping on the charpoy charpoy in Changazi's office, under the aged wall map of the world that he was nostalgically pleased to see still identified Tanzania as Tanganyika, he'd been entertained by Changazi's tales of roguery. The weather had been unusually fine all summer and business was good. Changazi had helped to outfit several expeditions, a German and a j.a.panese attempt in Changazi's office, under the aged wall map of the world that he was nostalgically pleased to see still identified Tanzania as Tanganyika, he'd been entertained by Changazi's tales of roguery. The weather had been unusually fine all summer and business was good. Changazi had helped to outfit several expeditions, a German and a j.a.panese attempt at K2 and an Italian group trying for the second ascent of Gasherbrum at K2 and an Italian group trying for the second ascent of Gasherbrum IV. Consequently, Changazi had protein bars with German labels tucked into every crevice of his office, like a squirrel's winter h.o.a.rd of nuts. And behind his desk, a case of a j.a.panese sports drink called Pokhari Sweat propped up half a dozen boxes of biscotti.

But the foreign delicacies Changazi savored most had names like Hildegund and Isabella. Despite that fact that the man had a wife and five children stashed at his home in distant 'Pindi and a second wife tucked away in a rented house near the superintendent of police's office in Skardu, Changazi had spent the tourist season tucking into a smorgasbord of the female tourists and trekkers who were arriving in Skardu in ever greater numbers.

Changazi told Mortenson how he squared his dalliances with his devotion to Islam. Heading to his mosque soon after another Inge or Aiko wandered into his sights, Changazi pet.i.tioned his mullah for permission to make a m.u.t.h.aa, m.u.t.h.aa, or temporary marriage. The custom was still common in parts of s.h.i.+te Pakistan, for married men who might face intervals without the comfort of their wives, fighting in distant wars, or traveling on an extended trip. But Changazi had been granted a handful of or temporary marriage. The custom was still common in parts of s.h.i.+te Pakistan, for married men who might face intervals without the comfort of their wives, fighting in distant wars, or traveling on an extended trip. But Changazi had been granted a handful of m.u.t.h.aa m.u.t.h.aa already since the climbing season began in May. Better to sanctify the union, however short-lived, in Al-lah's sight, Changazi cheerfully explained to Mortenson, than simply to have s.e.x. already since the climbing season began in May. Better to sanctify the union, however short-lived, in Al-lah's sight, Changazi cheerfully explained to Mortenson, than simply to have s.e.x.

Mortenson asked if Balti women whose husbands were away could also be granted m.u.t.h.aa. m.u.t.h.aa.

"No, of course not," Changazi said, waggling his head at the naivete of Mortenson's question, before offering him a biscotti to dunk in his tea.

Now that the cable was ordered and on its way, Mortenson hired a place on a jeep to Askole. All up the s.h.i.+gar Valley, they tunneled through ripening apple and apricot trees. The air was so clear that the serrated rust and ochre ridges of the Karakoram's eighteen-thousand-foot foothills seemed close enough to touch. And the road seemed as pa.s.sable as a boulder-strewn dirt track carved out of the edge of a cliff could ever be.

But as they turned up the Braldu Valley, low clouds pursued and overtook their jeep, moving fast from the south. That could only mean the monsoon, blowing in from India. And by the time they arrived in Askole, everyone in the windowless jeep was wet and spattered with gouts of gray mud.

Mortenson climbed out at the last stop, before the village of Askole, in a dense rain that raised welts in the muddy road. Korphe was still hours farther on by foot, and the driver couldn't be convinced to continue up the track in darkness, so Mortenson reluctantly spent the night, sprawled on bags of rice in a shop attached to the home of Askole's nurmadhar, nurmadhar, Haji Mehdi, fending off rats that tried to climb up from the flooded floor. Haji Mehdi, fending off rats that tried to climb up from the flooded floor.

In the morning, it was still raining in an apocalyptic fas.h.i.+on and the jeep driver had already contracted to carry a load back to Skardu. Mortenson set off on foot. He was still trying to warm to Askole. As the trailhead for all expeditions heading northeast up the Baltoro, it had been contaminated by repeated contact of the worst kind between Western trekkers needing to hire porters or purchase some staple they'd forgotten and hustlers hoping to take advantage of them. As in many last places, Askole merchants tended to inflate prices and ruthlessly refuse to bargain.

Wading through an alley running two feet deep with runoff, between the rounded walls of stone-and-mud huts, Mortenson felt his shalwar shalwar clutched from behind. He turned to see a boy, his head swarming with lice, his hand extended toward the clutched from behind. He turned to see a boy, his head swarming with lice, his hand extended toward the Angrezi. Angrezi. He didn't have the English to ask for money or a pen, but his meaning couldn't have been clearer. Mortenson took an apple out of his rucksack and handed it to the boy, who threw it in the gutter. He didn't have the English to ask for money or a pen, but his meaning couldn't have been clearer. Mortenson took an apple out of his rucksack and handed it to the boy, who threw it in the gutter.

Pa.s.sing a field north of Askole, Mortenson had to hold the s.h.i.+rttail of his shalwar shalwar over his nose against the stench. The field, a campsite used by dozens of expeditions on their way up the Baltoro, was befouled by hundreds of piles of human waste. over his nose against the stench. The field, a campsite used by dozens of expeditions on their way up the Baltoro, was befouled by hundreds of piles of human waste.

A book he'd recently read, Ancient Futures, Ancient Futures, by Helena Norberg-Hodge, was much on Mortenson's mind. Norberg-Hodge had spent seventeen years living just south of these mountains, in Ladakh, a region much like Baltistan, but cut off from Pakistan by the arbitrary borders colonial powers drew across the Himalaya. After almost two decades studying Ladakhi culture, Norberg-Hodge had come to believe that preserving a traditional way of life in Ladakh-extended families living in harmony with the land-would bring about more happiness than "improving" Ladakhis' standard of living with unchecked development. by Helena Norberg-Hodge, was much on Mortenson's mind. Norberg-Hodge had spent seventeen years living just south of these mountains, in Ladakh, a region much like Baltistan, but cut off from Pakistan by the arbitrary borders colonial powers drew across the Himalaya. After almost two decades studying Ladakhi culture, Norberg-Hodge had come to believe that preserving a traditional way of life in Ladakh-extended families living in harmony with the land-would bring about more happiness than "improving" Ladakhis' standard of living with unchecked development.

"I used to a.s.sume that the direction of 'progress' was somehow inevitable, not to be questioned," she writes. "I pa.s.sively accepted a new road through the middle of the park, a steel-and-gla.s.s bank where a 200-year-old church had stood ...and the fact that life seemed to get harder and faster with each day. I do not anymore. In Ladakh I have learned that there is more than one path into the future and I have had the privilege to witness another, saner, way of life-a pattern of existence based on the coevolution between human beings and the earth."

Norberg-Hodge continues to argue not only that Western development workers should not blindly impose modern "improvements" on ancient cultures, but that industrialized countries had lessons to learn from people like Ladakhis about building sustainable societies. "I have seen," she writes, "that community and a close relations.h.i.+p with the land can enrich human life beyond all comparison with material wealth or technological sophistication. I have learned that another way is possible."

As he walked up the rain-slick gorge to Korphe, keeping the rus.h.i.+ng Braldu on his right, Mortenson fretted about the effect his bridge would have on the isolated village. "The people of Korphe had a hard life, but they also lived with a rare kind of purity," Mortenson says. "I knew the bridge would help them get to a hospital in hours instead of days, and would make it easier to sell their crops. But I couldn't help worrying about what the outside world, coming in over the bridge, would do to Korphe."

The men of Korphe met Mortenson at the riverbank and ushered him over in the hanging basket. On both sides of the river, where the two towers of the bridge would stand, hundreds of slabs of rough-hewn granite were stacked, awaiting construction. Rather than having to haul rocks across the river and depend on the vagaries of transport up rutted roads, Haji Ali, in the end, had convinced Mortenson to use rock cut on hillsides only a few hundred yards distant from both banks. Korphe was poor in every material thing but its endless supply of rock.

Up through the rain-soaked village, Mortenson led a procession toward Haji Ali's house, to convene a meeting about how to proceed with the bridge. A long-haired black yak stood blocking their progress between two homes, while Tahira, the ten-year-old daughter of Hussein, Korphe's most educated man, pulled the yak by a bridle attached to the animal's nose ring and tried to coax him out of the way. The yak had other ideas. Leisurely, he voided a great steaming mound onto the mud, then walked off toward Tahira's home. Tahira swept her white headscarf out of the way and bent frantically to make patties out of the yak dung. She slapped them against the stone wall of the nearest home to dry, under the eaves, before the precious fuel could be washed away by the rain.

At Haji Ali's, Sakina took Mortenson's hand in welcome, and he realized it was the first time a Balti woman had touched him. She grinned boldly up into his face, as if daring him to be surprised. In answer, he crossed a threshold, too, and entered her "kitchen," just a fire ring of rocks, a few shelves, and a length of warped wood board on the packed dirt floor for chopping. Mortenson bent to a pile of kindling and said h.e.l.lo to Sakina's granddaughter Jahan, who smiled shyly, tucked her burgundy headscarf between her teeth, and hid behind it.

Sakina, giggling, tried to shoo Mortenson from her kitchen. But he took a handful of tamburok, tamburok, an herbal-tasting green mountain tea, from a tarnished bra.s.s urn and filled the blackened teapot from a ten-gallon plastic gasoline container of river water. Mortenson added a few slivers of kindling to the smoldering fire, and put the tea on to boil. an herbal-tasting green mountain tea, from a tarnished bra.s.s urn and filled the blackened teapot from a ten-gallon plastic gasoline container of river water. Mortenson added a few slivers of kindling to the smoldering fire, and put the tea on to boil.

He poured the bitter green tea for Korphe's council of elders himself, then took a cup and sat on a cus.h.i.+on between Haji Ali and the hearth, where burning yak dung filled the room with eye-smarting smoke.

"My grandmother was very shocked when Doctor Greg went into her kitchen," Jahan says. "But she already thought of him as her own child, so she accepted it. Soon, her ideas changed, and she began to tease my grandfather that he should learn how to be more helpful like his American son."

When overseeing the interests of Korphe, however, Haji Ali rarely relaxed his vigilance. "I was always amazed how, without a telephone, electricity, or a radio, Haji Ali kept himself informed about everything happening in the Braldu Valley and beyond," Mortenson says. Two jeeps carrying the cable for the bridge had made it to within eighteen miles of Korphe, Haji Ali told the group, before a rockslide blocked the road. Since the road might remain blocked for weeks, and heavy earth-moving equipment was unlikely to be dispatched from Skardu in bad weather, Haji Ali proposed that every able-bodied man in the village pitch in to carry the cable to Korphe so they could begin work on the bridge at once.

With a cheerfulness that Mortenson found surprising among men setting out on such a grueling mission, thirty-five Balti, ranging from teenagers to Haji Ali and his silver-bearded peers, walked all the next day in the rain, turned around, and spent twelve more hours carrying the cable up to Korphe. Each of the coils of cable weighed eight hundred pounds, and it took ten men at a time to carry the thick wood poles they threaded through the center of the spools.

More than a foot taller than all the Korphe men, Mortenson tried to carry his share, but tilted the load so steeply that he could only watch the other men work. No one minded. Most of them had served as porters for Western expeditions, carrying equally brutal loads up the Baltoro.

The men marched cheerfully, chewing naswar, naswar, the strong tobacco that Haji Ali distributed from the seemingly endless supply stashed in his vest pockets. Working this hard to improve life in their village, rather than chasing the inscrutable goals of foreign climbers, was a pleasure, Twaha told Mortenson, grinning up from under the yoke beside his father. the strong tobacco that Haji Ali distributed from the seemingly endless supply stashed in his vest pockets. Working this hard to improve life in their village, rather than chasing the inscrutable goals of foreign climbers, was a pleasure, Twaha told Mortenson, grinning up from under the yoke beside his father.

In Korphe, the men dug foundations deep into both muddy riverbanks. But the monsoon lingered, and the concrete wouldn't set in the wet weather. Twaha and a group of younger men proposed a trip to hunt for ibex while the rain persisted, and invited Mortenson to accompany them.

In only his running shoes, raincoat, shalwar kamiz, shalwar kamiz, and a cheap Chinese acrylic sweater he'd purchased in Skardu's bazaar, Mortenson felt poorly prepared for a high-alt.i.tude trek. But none of the six other men were better equipped. Twaha, the and a cheap Chinese acrylic sweater he'd purchased in Skardu's bazaar, Mortenson felt poorly prepared for a high-alt.i.tude trek. But none of the six other men were better equipped. Twaha, the nurmadhar nurmadhar's son, wore a st.u.r.dy pair of brown leather dress shoes given to him by a pa.s.sing trekker. Two of the men's feet were wrapped in tightly lashed hides, and the others wore plastic sandals.

They walked north out of Korphe in a steady rain, through ripening buckwheat fields clinging to every surface where irrigation water could be coaxed. The well-developed wheat kernels looked like miniature ears of corn. Under the onslaught of thick raindrops, the kernels bobbed on the end of their swaying stalks. Twaha proudly carried the group's only gun over his shoulder, a British musket from the early colonial era. And Mortenson found it hard to believe they were hoping to bring down an ibex with such a museum piece.

Mortenson spotted the bridge he'd missed on his way back from K2, a sagging yak-hair zamba, zamba, lashed between enormous boulders on either side of the Braldu. He was cheered by the sight. It led to Askole and skirted the place he was coming to consider his second home. It was like looking at the less-interesting path his life might have taken had he not detoured down the trail to Korphe. lashed between enormous boulders on either side of the Braldu. He was cheered by the sight. It led to Askole and skirted the place he was coming to consider his second home. It was like looking at the less-interesting path his life might have taken had he not detoured down the trail to Korphe.

As they climbed, the canyon walls closed in and both rain and spray from the Braldu soaked them with equal thoroughness. The trail clung to the vertiginously sloping side of the canyon. Generations of Balti had b.u.t.tressed it against was.h.i.+ng away by wedging flat rocks together into a flimsy shelf. The Korphe men, carrying only light loads in woven baskets, walked along the s.h.i.+fting two-foot ledge as surely as if they were still strolling through level fields. Mortenson placed each foot carefully, leaning into the canyon wall, which he traced with trailing fingertips. He was all too conscious of the two-hundred-foot plunge to the Braldu.

Here the river was as ugly as the ice peaks that birthed it were beautiful. Snarling through a catacomb of sculpted black and brown boulders, down in the dank recesses where sunlight rarely reached, the mud-brown Braldu looked like a writhing serpent. It was difficult to believe that this grim torrent was the source of life for those golden buckwheat kernels, and all the crops of Korphe.

By the snout of the Biafo Glacier, the rain stopped. A shaft of stormlight skewered the cloud cover and picked out Bakhor Das, a peak to the east, in a burst of lemony light. These men knew the nineteen-thousand-foot pyramid as Korphe K2, since its purity of form echoed its big brother up the Baltoro, and it loomed over their homes like a protective deity. In valleys like the Upper Braldu, Islam has never completely vanquished older, animist beliefs. And the Korphe men seized this vision of their mountain as a good omen for the hunt. Led by Twaha, together the men chanted a placation of the Karakoram's deities, promising that they would take only one ibex.

To find ibex, they'd have to climb high. The celebrated field biologist George Schaller had pursued the ibex and their cousins all over the Himalaya. A 1973 trek with Schaller through western Nepal to study the bharal, or blue sheep, became the basis of Peter Matthiessen's stark masterpiece The Snow Leopard The Snow Leopard. Matthiessen anointed his account of their long walk through high mountains with a sense of pilgrimage.

The world's great mountains demand more than mere physical appreciation. In Schaller's own book, Stones of Silence, Stones of Silence, he confesses that his treks through the Karakoram, which he called "the most rugged range on earth," were, for him, spiritual odysseys as well as scientific expeditions. "Hards.h.i.+p and disappointment marked these journeys," Schaller writes, but, "mountains become an appet.i.te. I wanted more of the Karakoram." he confesses that his treks through the Karakoram, which he called "the most rugged range on earth," were, for him, spiritual odysseys as well as scientific expeditions. "Hards.h.i.+p and disappointment marked these journeys," Schaller writes, but, "mountains become an appet.i.te. I wanted more of the Karakoram."

Schaller had trekked up this same gorge two decades earlier, gathering data on the ibex, Marco Polo sheep, and scouting sites he hoped the Pakistani government might preserve as the Karakoram National Park. But for long days hunched over his spotting scope, Schaller found himself simply admiring how magnificently the ibex had adapted to this harshest of all environments.

The alpine ibex is a large, well-muscled mountain goat easily distinguished by its long scimitar-shaped horns, which the Balti prize almost as much as they savor ibex meat. Schaller found that the ibex grazed higher than any animal in the Karakoram. Their sureness of foot allowed them to range over narrow ledges at alt.i.tudes up to seventeen thousand feet, high above their predators, the wolves and snow leopards. At the very limit where vegetation could exist, they mowed alpine shoots and gra.s.ses to the nub and had to forage ten to twelve hours every day to maintain their ma.s.s.

Twaha paused by the tongue of soiled ice that marked the leading edge of the Biafo Glacier and took a small circular object from the pocket of the wine-colored fleece jacket Mortenson had given him during his first visit to Korphe. It was a tomar, tomar, or "badge of courage." Balti hang a or "badge of courage." Balti hang a tomar tomar around the neck of every newborn to ward off the evil spirits they blame for their communities' painfully high rates of infant mortality. And they wouldn't think of traveling over something as dangerous as a s.h.i.+fting river of ice without taking similar precautions. Twaha tied the intricate medallion woven of maroon and vermilion wool to the zipper of Mortenson's jacket. Each of the men fixed his own around the neck of every newborn to ward off the evil spirits they blame for their communities' painfully high rates of infant mortality. And they wouldn't think of traveling over something as dangerous as a s.h.i.+fting river of ice without taking similar precautions. Twaha tied the intricate medallion woven of maroon and vermilion wool to the zipper of Mortenson's jacket. Each of the men fixed his own tomar tomar in place, then stepped onto the glacier. in place, then stepped onto the glacier.

Traveling with a party of men hunting to eat, rather than Westerners aiming for summits with more complicated motives, Mortenson saw this wilderness of ice with new eyes. It was no wonder the great peaks of the Himalaya had remained unconquered until the mid-twentieth century. For millennia, the people who lived closest to the mountains never considered attempting such a thing. Scratching out enough food and warmth to survive on the roof of the world took all of one's energy.

In this sense, Balti men weren't so different from the ibex they pursued.

They climbed west, picking a path through s.h.i.+fting slabs of ice and deep pools tinted tropical blue. Water echoed from the depths of creva.s.ses and rockfalls shattered the silence as the weather's constant warming and cooling pried boulders loose. Near, to their north, somewhere within the wall of low clouds, was the Ogre, a sheer 23,900-foot wall that had only been conquered in 1977, by British climbers Chris Bonington and Doug Scott. But the Ogre exacted revenge during the descent, and Scott was forced to crawl back to base camp with two broken legs.

The Biafo rises to 16,600 feet at Snow Lake before joining with the Hispar Glacier, which descends into the Hunza Valley. At seventy-six miles from snout to snout, it forms the longest contiguous glacier system outside the Earth's poles. This natural highway was also the path Hunza raiding parties historically took to plunder the Braldu Valley. But the hunting party had this high traverse to themselves, except for the occasional tracks of the snow leopard Twaha pointed out excitedly, and two mournful lammergeiers, vultures that circled curiously on a thermal high above the hunters.

Walking for hours over the brittle ice in his running shoes, Mortenson's feet were soon freezing. But Hussein, Tahira's father, took hay out of his pack and lined Mortenson's Nikes with handfuls of folded stalks. With this, the cold was tolerable. Just. Mortenson wondered, without tents or sleeping bags, how they would pa.s.s the bitter nights. But the Balti had been hunting on the Biafo long before Westerners started arriving with the latest gear.

Each night, they slept in a series of caves along the lateral moraine, as well-known to the Balti as a string of watering holes would be to a caravan of Bedouin. Every cave was stocked with dry brush and bits of sage and juniper for fires. From under heavy piles of rocks, the men retrieved sacks of lentils and rice they'd placed there on previous visits. And with the loaves of skull-shaped kurba kurba bread they baked over fire stones, they had all the fuel they needed to continue the hunt. bread they baked over fire stones, they had all the fuel they needed to continue the hunt.

After four days they spotted their first ibex. It was a carca.s.s lying on a flat rock, picked clean as snow by lammergeier and leopard. High on a ledge above the bones, Twaha spotted a herd of sixteen ibex grazing, shouting skiin! skiin! skiin! skiin! their name in Balti. Their great curving horns were silhouetted against a changeable sky, but too far above the men to hunt. Twaha guessed that a their name in Balti. Their great curving horns were silhouetted against a changeable sky, but too far above the men to hunt. Twaha guessed that a rdo-rut, rdo-rut, an avalanche, had brought the dead ibex down, since he was so far below his grazing ground. He tore the bleached head and horns loose from the spine and lashed it to Mortenson's pack. A present. an avalanche, had brought the dead ibex down, since he was so far below his grazing ground. He tore the bleached head and horns loose from the spine and lashed it to Mortenson's pack. A present.

The Biafo bores a trench through high peaks deeper than that of the Grand Canyon. They trekked up to where it met the long north ridge of Latok, which has repelled more than a dozen expeditions' attempts. Twice they worked their way stealthily downwind of ibex herds, but the animals sensed them with a cunning Mortenson couldn't help admiring, before they were close enough to attempt a shot.

Just before dusk on the seventh day, it was Twaha who sighted the big stag on an outcropping sixty feet above them. He tilted a tin of gunpowder into his musket, added a steel slug, and tamped it down. Mortenson and the others crawled behind him, pressing against the base of a cliff, which they hoped would conceal them. Twaha folded down two legs from the barrel of the gun, steadied them atop a boulder, and c.o.c.ked back the hammer quietly, but not quietly enough. The ibex whirled toward them. They were close enough to see his long beard bristle with alarm. Mortenson saw Twaha's mouth moving in prayer as he pulled the trigger.

The report was deafening, and brought a rain of pebbles bouncing down from the heights. A spray of gunpowder painted Twaha's face black as a coal miner's. Mortenson was sure Twaha had missed because the ibex was still standing. Then the buck's front legs buckled, and Mortenson saw steam venting into the chill air from a wound in the animal's neck. The ibex struggled twice to get his legs back beneath him, quieted, and pitched over on his side. "Allah-u-Akbhar!" "Allah-u-Akbhar!" all the Korphe men shouted in a single voice. all the Korphe men shouted in a single voice.

The butchering began in the dark. Then they carried pieces of the carca.s.s into a cave and lit a fire. Hussein expertly wielded a curved knife the length of his forearm. His long, mournfully intelligent face frowned with concentration as he filleted the liver and shared it out among the men. Mortenson was glad of the food's warmth, if nothing else. Alone among all the residents of Korphe, Hussein had left the Braldu and been educated through the twelfth grade in distant, lowland Lah.o.r.e. Bent over the carca.s.s in this cave, his forearms slick with blood, Hussein seemed to Mortenson immeasurably removed from his days of scholars.h.i.+p on the sweltering plains of the Punjab. He would be the perfect teacher for Korphe's school, Mortenson realized. He'd be able to bridge both worlds.

By the time the hunting party arrived back in Korphe, the monsoon had retreated and the weather had turned crisp and clear. They marched into the village to a heroes' welcome. Twaha led the way holding the fresh ibex head aloft. Mortenson, still carrying his present, brought up the back, with the horns of the avalanche victim bristling above his head like his own antlers.

The men pa.s.sed out handfuls of cubed ibex fat to children who crowded around them, sucking on the tidbits like candy. The several hundred pounds of meat they carried in their baskets were shared evenly among the hunters' families. And after the meat had been boiled away, and the brains served in a stew with potatoes and onions, Haji Ali added the horns his son had brought back to a row of trophies nailed over the entrance of his home, proud evidence from the days when he was vigorous enough to hunt himself.

Mortenson had taken his sketches of the bridges spanning the lower Braldu to a Pakistani army engineer in the regional capital of Gilgit. He examined Mortenson's drawings, suggested some revisions to strengthen the structure, and drew a detailed blueprint for Korphe's bridge, indicating the precise placement of cables. His plan called for twin sixty-four-foot stone towers, topped with poured concrete arches wide enough for yak carts to pa.s.s through, and a 284-foot suspension span sixty feet above the high-water mark.

Mortenson hired an experienced crew of masons from Skardu to supervise the construction of the towers. Four Korphe men at a time lifted the blocks of quarried stone and attempted to place them squarely on top of the layer of cement the masons had troweled into place. Children turned out to watch the entertainment and shouted encouragement as their fathers' and uncles' faces reddened with the effort of holding the stones steady. Block by block, two three-tiered towers rose on either side of the river, narrowing as they tapered toward the top. place. Children turned out to watch the entertainment and shouted encouragement as their fathers' and uncles' faces reddened with the effort of holding the stones steady. Block by block, two three-tiered towers rose on either side of the river, narrowing as they tapered toward the top.

The clear fall weather made the long days of work pleasant and Mortenson reveled in the tangible results every evening as he measured how many blocks they'd managed to set that day. For most of July, as the men built the bridge, women tended the crops. As the st.u.r.dy twin towers rose above the river, women and children watched them rise from their roofs.

Before the claustrophobia of winter closed in, Korphe's people lived as much as possible outdoors. Most families took their two daily meals on their roof. And was.h.i.+ng down a bowl of dal dal and rice with strong and rice with strong tamburok tamburok tea, after a satisfying day's work, Mortenson loved basking in the last of the sunlight with Haji Ali's family, and chatting across the rooftops to the dozens of families doing the same. tea, after a satisfying day's work, Mortenson loved basking in the last of the sunlight with Haji Ali's family, and chatting across the rooftops to the dozens of families doing the same.

Norberg-Hodge admiringly quotes the king of another Himalayan country, Bhutan, who says the true measure of a nation's success is not gross national product, but "gross national happiness." On their warm, dry roofs, among the fruits of their successful harvest, eating, smoking, and gossiping with the same sense of leisure as Parisians on the terrace of a sidewalk cafe, Mortenson felt sure that, despite all that they lacked, the Balti still held the key to a kind of uncomplicated happiness that was disappearing in the developing world as fast as old-growth forests.

At night, bachelors like Twaha and Mortenson took advantage of the mild weather to sleep under the stars. By this time, Mortenson's Balti had become fluent, and he and Twaha sat up long after most of Korphe slept to talk. Their great subject was women. Mortenson was fast approaching forty, Twaha, about to turn thirty-five.

He told Mortenson how much he missed his wife, Rhokia. It had been nine years since he lost her in gaining their only child, Jahan. "She was very beautiful," he said, as they lay looking at a Milky Way that was so dense it covered them like a shawl. "Her face was small, like Jahan's, and she was always popping up laughing and singing, like a marmot."

"Will you marry again?" Mortenson asked.

"Oh, for me this is very easy," Twaha explained. One day I will be nurmadhar nurmadhar and already I have a lot of land. So far I don't love any other woman." He lowered his voice slyly. "But sometimes I . . . enjoy." and already I have a lot of land. So far I don't love any other woman." He lowered his voice slyly. "But sometimes I . . . enjoy."

"Can you do that without marrying?" Mortenson said. It was something he'd been curious about since coming to Korphe, but had never felt confident enough to ask.

"Yes, of course," Twaha said. "With widows. We have many widows in Korphe."

Mortenson thought of the cramped quarters below, where dozens of family members were sleeping sprawled side by side on cus.h.i.+ons. "Where can you, you know?"

"In the handhok, handhok, of course" Twaha said. Every Korphe home had a of course" Twaha said. Every Korphe home had a handhok, handhok, a small thatched hut on the roof where they stored grain. "You want me to find you a widow? I think a few love Doctor Greg already." a small thatched hut on the roof where they stored grain. "You want me to find you a widow? I think a few love Doctor Greg already."

"Thank you," Mortenson said. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"You have a sweetheart in your village?" Twaha asked. So Mortenson summarized his major dating failures of the last decade, concluding with Marina, and he couldn't help noticing, as he talked, that the wound felt far less raw.

"Ah, she left you because you had no house," Twaha said. "This thing happens often in Baltistan. But now you can tell her you have a house and almost a bridge in Korphe."

"She's not the one I want," Mortenson said, and realized he meant it. "Then you better quickly find your woman," Twaha said, "before you grow too old and fat."

The day they strung the first cable between the towers, news traveled down the trail with porters returning from the Baltoro that a party of Americans was approaching. Mortenson sat on a boulder by the north bank of the Braldu with the engineer's blueprints. He supervised as two groups stretched the main cables with teams of yaks and tied them to the towers as tightly as they could manage without power tools. Then the nimblest among them tightroped back and forth, looping support cables through the lash points the engineer had outlined and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g them tightly in place with clamps.

Down the north bank of the Braldu, a formidable-looking American man wearing a white baseball cap approached, leaning on a walking stick. At his side, a handsome, heavily muscled local guide hovered protectively.

"My first thought was, 'That's a big guy sitting on that rock,' " says George McCown, "and I couldn't figure out what the deal with him was. He had long hair. He was wearing local clothes. But it was obvious he was no Pakistani."

Mortenson slid down off the boulder and held out his hand. "Are you George McCown?" he asked. McCown took Mortenson's hand and nodded incredulously. "Then happy birthday," Mortenson said, grinning, and handed the man a sealed envelope.

George McCown served on the board of the American Himalayan Foundation, along with Lou Reichardt and Sir Edmund Hillary. He had spent his sixtieth birthday trekking to K2 with two of his children, Dan and Amy, to visit the base camp of an expedition he was helping to sponsor. The birthday card from the AHF's board of directors had arrived in Askole, then been pa.s.sed on to Mortenson by mystified local authorities who figured one American would know how to locate another.

McCown had been CEO of the Boise Cascade company and built the corporation's business from $100 million to $6 billion in six years, before it splintered and split apart. He learned his lesson well. In the 1980s, he founded his own venture capital firm in Menlo Park, California, and began buying up pieces of other companies that had grown too large and unwieldy. McCown was still recovering from knee surgery, and after weeks walking on the glacier and wondering if his knee would carry him back to civilization, the sight of Mortenson cheered him immeasurably.

"After a month away, I was suddenly talking with someone very competent in what can be a very hostile place," McCown says. "I couldn't have been happier to meet Greg Mortenson."

Mortenson told McCown how the funds for the bridge and the school had been raised only after the blurb Tom Vaughan had written for the AHF's newsletter. Both men were delighted by their coincidental meeting. "Greg's a guy you immediately like and trust," Mc-Cown says. "He has no guile. He's a gentle giant. Watching all those people work with him to build that bridge, it was obvious they loved him. He operated as one of them, and I wondered how in the h.e.l.l an American had managed that."

Mortenson introduced himself to McCown's chaperone in Balti, and when he answered in Urdu, Mortenson learned that he was not Balti but a Wakhi tribesman from the remote Charpurson Valley, on the Afghanistan border, and his name was Faisal Baig.

Mortenson asked his countryman if he would consider doing him a favor. "I was feeling out on a limb in Korphe, operating all by myself," Mortenson says. "And I wanted these people to feel like it wasn't just me, that there were a bunch of other Americans back home concerned about helping them."

"He slipped me a big roll of rupees," McCown says, "and asked me to act like a big boss from America. So I hammed it up. I walked around like a chief, paying everyone their wages, telling them they were doing a great job, and to really throw themselves into it, and finish as fast as they could."

McCown walked on, following his family. But this day of stringing cables between two towers would connect more than the north and south banks of the Braldu. As life for foreigners in Pakistan would become progressively more dangerous, Baig would volunteer to serve as Mortenson's bodyguard. And from his perch in Menlo Park, Mc-Cown would become one of Mortenson's most powerful advocates.

In late August, ten weeks after breaking the then-muddy ground, Mortenson stood in the middle of the swaying 284-foot span, admiring the neat concrete arches on either end, the st.u.r.dy three-tiered stone foundations, and the webwork of cables that anch.o.r.ed it all together. Haji Ali offered him the last plank and asked him to lay it in place. But Mortenson insisted Korphe's chief complete Korphe's bridge. Haji Ali raised the board above his head and thanked all-merciful Allah for the foreigner he'd been kind enough to send to his village, then knelt and plugged the final gap over the foaming Braldu. From their lookout high above the south riverbank, the women and children of Korphe shouted their approval.

Broke again, and anxious not to dip into what funds still remained for the school, Mortenson prepared to head back to Berkeley and spend the winter and spring earning enough money to return. His last night in Korphe, he sat on the roof with Twaha, Hussein, and Haji Ali and firmed up plans for breaking ground on the school in the summer.

Hussein had offered to donate a level field that his wife Hawa owned for the school. It had an unimpeded view of Korphe K2, the kind of view that Mortenson thought would encourage students to aim high. He accepted on the condition that Hussein become the Korphe School's first teacher.

They sealed the deal over tea extravagantly sweetened for the occasion and handshakes, and talked excitedly about the school until well after dark.

Eight hundred feet below, lantern lights flickered from the middle of the Braldu, as the people of Korphe strolled curiously back and forth across the barrier that had once cut them off so completely from the wider world, the world to which Mortenson reluctantly prepared to return.

CHAPTER 11.

SIX D DAYS.

There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled. You feel it, don't you?

-Rumi

At the Alta Bates Burn Unit, a constellation of red and green LEDs blinked across a bank of monitors. Though it was 4:00 a.m., and he was slumped behind the nurse's station, trying and failing to find a comfortable position in a plastic chair designed for a much smaller person, Mortenson felt something that had been in short supply ever since that evening he'd dropped the bottle of Baileys liqueur into the trash can at the Beach Motel-happiness.

Earlier, Mortenson had smoothed antibiotic cream into the hands of a twelve-year-old boy whose stepfather had pressed them to a stove, then redressed his bandages. Physically, at least, the boy was healing well. Otherwise, it had been a quiet night. He didn't need to travel to the other side of the world to be useful, Mortenson thought. He was helping here. But each s.h.i.+ft, and the dollars accruing in his Bank of America account, brought Mortenson closer to the day he could resume construction of the Korphe School.

He was again living in his rented room at Witold Dudzinski's, and here in the half-empty ward, he was glad of a peaceful night away from the smoke and vodka fumes. Mortenson's cranberry-colored surgical scrubs were practically pajamas, and the light was dim enough for him to doze. If only the chair would allow it.

Groggily, Mortenson walked home after his s.h.i.+ft. The black sky was bluing behind the ridgeline of the Berkeley Hills as he sipped thick coffee between bites of a glazed pastry from the Cambodian doughnut shop. Double-parked in front of Dudzinski's pickup truck, a black Saab sat in front of Mortenson's home. And slumped back in the reclined driver's seat, all but her lips obscured by a cascade of dark hair, lay Dr. Marina Villard. Mortenson licked the sugar from his fingers, then pulled open the driver's door. doughnut shop. Double-parked in front of Dudzinski's pickup truck, a black Saab sat in front of Mortenson's home. And slumped back in the reclined driver's seat, all but her lips obscured by a cascade of dark hair, lay Dr. Marina Villard. Mortenson licked the sugar from his fingers, then pulled open the driver's door.

Marina sat up, stretched, and hugged herself awake. "You wouldn't answer your phone," she said.

"I was working,"

"I left a lot of messages," she said. "Just erase them."